Eve
by madamenaan
Summary: Mostly about Ed making a visit back to Las Vegas, about five or six years after he left.


**Eve**

* * *

Even years later, Eve can remember the day she first saw her grandfather in perfect detail. She can remember the faded evening sky, the trailing clouds that turned to pale blue and purple, the midges hovering in the air, glowing golden in the last traces of sunlight. She can remember the scent of fresh cut grass and the flowers outside the door coming into bloom. She can remember the sounds in the still air – cars going by in the distance, the soft patter of their next-door neighbours' sprinkler, the faint voices drifting from the kitchen, where her mother watched TV while she made dinner.

She remembers sitting in her father's lap in the front seat of the Camaro, parked out on the driveway, pretending to drive. It was a favourite game of hers back then, playing race cars in the Camaro, and one she never tired of. She would sit in the front seat, gripping onto the steering wheel, and her father would bounce her lightly up and down on his knees, imitating the vibrations of the car speeding round the track, would make a steady buzzing noise in her ear that sounded like the hum of the engine.

She remembers, still, how much fun that was, with her father bouncing her higher and higher until she was breathless with laughter, imagining the track ahead of her, the wind rushing in her hair.

It was almost a let down, when, years later, she actually learned to drive – it was never the same as playing that game with her father, back when she was so small she couldn't reach the steering wheel without his lap to sit in, back when her favourite days were the days like that one, when he'd come home early from work, when he wasn't too tired to play, didn't have any chores to do around the house, and he'd come in the door and swing her up in the air, and say, "Hey, little lady. Wanna go for a ride?"

On that day, she remembers, too, her mother was making hamburgers for dinner as a treat. Her mother had a rule, one that she stuck with resolutely, even though most of her rules ended up getting bent or broken, that things like hamburgers and hotdogs – the things that, at that age, Eve loved best – were only allowed on special occasions.

She got fries fairly often, and if she looked sad enough she could usually get her mother to give in and let her eat ice cream after dinner, as long as it wasn't too much and she brushed her teeth really well afterwards. But hamburgers were special, and Eve was excited.

She can't remember, now, what the occasion was – perhaps her mother just felt like hamburgers for a change – but she remembers, clearly, the satisfaction of knowing that soon she'd be eating them for dinner, the tingling anticipation she felt breathing in the smell that floated from the kitchen.

She wonders sometimes if any other feeling she's had has been as cleanly, purely perfect as the one she got on days like that, when all she needed was the simple pleasure of her mother making her hamburgers for dinner and her father playing race cars with her in the Camaro to feel like she couldn't be any happier.

* * *

It feels kind of strange, now, to remember being so young, to remember a time when the smallest things could give her hours of joy. She remembers long afternoons playing tea parties with her teddy bears, arranged in a neat circle around plastic cups and plates. Her mother would come and offer them snacks, and Eve would explain, patiently, "They can't really eat, Mommy," which made Eve's father laugh loudly, even though she didn't really understand what was funny.

She remembers, too, the evenings every so often when her mother would get dressed up to go out, and Eve would help her. Though mostly she didn't have to do much – just watched, fascinated, as her mother went through the lengthy, complicated ritual of getting ready.

It started off with a long, lazy bath, the two of them sitting in water so hot it turned their skin pink and soft, filled with bubbles scented with funny, flowery smells that tickled Eve's nose.

Then, wrapped up in their towels, they would go to the bedroom to inspect her mother's closet. That closet was an enthralling place for Eve when she was little, where she could hide for hours amongst her mother's dresses, slipping under the tents of silky and sequinned and shimmering material that smelled of perfume and dry cleaning fluid.

They would search for the right dress for her mother to go out in – a serious business, which could take them some time. Her mother would try on dress after dress, and after putting each one on, she would walk back and forth across the room for Eve's benefit, do a twirl if she asked her to. And then she would frown, and put her hands on her hips, and ask, "What do you think?"

She always listened very carefully to Eve's response, nodding seriously as if she thought Eve's opinion was extremely valuable, and Eve would feel pleased and important.

Last of all, her mother would fix her hair, the prettiest hair Eve had ever seen, smooth and swirling and soft as feathers, while she watched, admiringly, from her perch on her parents' bed.

And then, they would go downstairs, where her father was waiting for them, and he would start saying that the cab was here, and their reservations were for eight, and – And then he would stop, and smile, and say softly, "Wow," and then, "Wow," again. And her mother would smile, too, a special, private smile, and would say, sometimes, in a quiet, teasing voice, "Stop saying 'wow'. Say something else."

And then off they would go, promising to be back soon, and Eve would be left behind to be spoiled rotten by her grandmother.

Whenever she thinks about that time, it's those things she remembers, the happy things. Although there were bad things, too, of course. When she thinks closely enough, she remembers that the summer her grandfather came to visit was the summer the Montecito got mentioned on the news one night, when Eve got sent to bed early and her mother shut herself in the kitchen with the phone. Her father barely came home for a week after that, and when he did he was too tired and worried to do anything much in the evenings, fell asleep on the sofa with her on his knee watching cartoons. She was too young, then, to understand words like _gunmen_ and _robbery_, or what that might mean.

It was the summer, too, that she got stung by a bee on her bottom lip: she remembers weeping in terror as she watched it swell bigger and bigger. Her mother had driven her to the hospital in a panic, had been almost as hysterical as Eve by the time a doctor came to see them and told them that there was nothing to worry about, he could fix her up in a second.

But it takes a while to remember those things, to remember what happened and when, because they all faded fast, so that it's only the good things she remembers later on.

* * *

It's only, really, when she leaves Las Vegas, when she enters a world that is so completely separate from that one, that she starts to realize that there are things about her childhood that maybe aren't normal to everyone else.

Like the fact that so many of her memories revolve around the casino – when her father used to carry her round and introduce her to the high rollers, announcing, "This is my daughter," like she was the million-dollar jackpot. Or when she used to play hide-and-seek with her mom in the hotel corridors while the rooms were being cleaned, a game that her mother almost banned, and only agreed to play again once she had introduced many extra rules, after Eve nearly tumbled down the laundry chute.

She remembers practicing her alphabet in the back hallway while she waited for her parents, spelling out her name triumphantly to any of the passing showgirls and maintenance guys who would listen.

Remembers, too, being babysat in the surveillance room, on the days when her father had meeting after meeting and her mother couldn't get out of the restaurant, when her uncle Mike – who wasn't, actually, her uncle, although sometimes he claimed to be – would keep her occupied by playing I Spy with the images on the security cameras.

She comes to understand, later, that other people just don't get this way of life. Other people, she learns, didn't know the rules of blackjack by the time they were eight, didn't used to listen out for when someone rolled snake eyes at the craps table because they liked the sound of it even though they didn't know what it meant. Other people didn't pass the Eiffel Tower and the Venetian canals every day on their way to school.

But she hadn't seen anything strange in it at all.

She remembers a song her father used to sing, sometimes, when she was very small, when she'd had her bath and was sulking because it was time to go to bed: _Soon you'll grow… So take a chance… With a couple of kooks, hung up on romancing…_

At the time, Eve didn't know the words or what they meant, she just liked the song: she liked the way her father sang it out of tune, humming the words he couldn't remember, and the way he'd start to tickle her when he sang, _'Cause I'm not much cop at punching other peoples' dads_.

It wasn't till later that she'd understood that perhaps they were all kind of kooky, that it was, perhaps, a pretty strange world to grow up in. But she wouldn't have traded it, wouldn't still.

* * *

On that day, though, the day that her grandfather appeared on their driveway, she didn't know any of this. Didn't know any other life but the weird and crazy and fascinating whirl of Las Vegas, with its bright, bright lights, and its extravagant buildings, and its bewildering combination of shameless tackiness and a bizarre, beguiling beauty.

That day was back when she was young enough not to question the existence of Santa Claus, young enough to honestly believe that her mother knew everything, and that her father might be the tallest person in the world (apart, obviously, from giants).

She was young enough, too, not to wonder about the fact that she had a grandfather she'd never met, who'd vanished from town one day and never returned. Why, she hadn't found out until much, much later: no one had ever told her, and she had decided, once she was old enough to begin to understand, just not to ask.

She was the first one to see him, as he walked down the street towards their house, a solitary figure in a black leather jacket and a baseball cap that shaded his face. But she didn't recognize him – she had only ever seen him before in photographs that she was too little, then, to remember clearly. And she was too intent on the game to say anything anyway.

"Faster, Daddy, faster!" she demanded, and her father laughed and obligingly bounced her higher.

And then, her father saw the figure, too, and he went suddenly very still, his laughter catching in his throat.

"Daddy…" she whined, plucking at the knees of his jeans, wanting to play some more.

But her father didn't respond. He was looking ahead, wonderingly, eyes squinting. He watched the man in the dark jacket as he walked slowly, steadily toward them, head bowed, hands stuffed in his jeans' pockets.

Her father lifted her gently, and settled her into the other seat.

"Stay here a minute, honey, okay?" he said, still looking into the distance, distracted, "Don't get out the car."

Obediently, Eve sat on her hands, to show she was a good girl, and wouldn't move. Her father touched her head lightly, and stepped out of the car.

She sat, confused and a little annoyed at her game being interrupted, and watched as he approached the man in the dark jacket, uncertainly.

As her father got closer, the man looked up, so you could see his face, and her father just stopped and stared. For a moment, the two of them simply looked at each other.

"Ed…" her father said, then, said it softly, like he couldn't quite believe he was saying it.

And the man smiled, said, in a gruff, gentle voice, "Hey, kid."

Her father smiled back, amazed.

"Where have you been?" he asked, not in the way he would say it to Eve sometimes if she'd wandered away from him for a moment, angry and relieved both at once, or the pretend-annoyed way he would say it to her mother, when she'd been longer than she said looking around a store, while he and Eve waited outside. He asked it like he had no idea of what the answer could be.

"Everywhere," the man replied, "Pretty much."

And then he grinned, and so did her father.

Eve watched in bewilderment, wondering who this man was, and how he knew her father, wondering what he was doing there on their driveway on that quiet, weekday evening.

Her father seemed to remember something then, because he hesitated, started to glance around, up and down the street. He turned to look at her in the car.

"Is this safe?" he asked. The man in the jacket nodded.

"It should be," he said, "Unless you got a couple of cops living next door to you."

Her father shook his head no, and smiled slightly, turning around to look at her again.

"Evie, baby," he called to her then, reaching out a hand, "Come over here."

Eve hesitated for a second, not sure what to do or what was going on. But her father was smiling at her, and the strange man was smiling, too, and after a moment she got out of the car like she'd been shown how to do, and walked along the driveway to where her father stood.

She slowed down a little, as she got closer, felt suddenly kind of shy. She tugged uncertainly on her t-shirt.

"It's okay," her father assured her, holding out his hand for her again, and she came nearer, gripping one of his fingers in a tiny hand.

"Ed," her father said, and she could hear a flicker in his voice, pride, and happiness, and a strange kind of sadness, "This is Eve."

The man looked at her for a moment.

"Eve…" he repeated softly.

He gave her a slightly embarrassed smile, and shrugged briefly, as though to say, "Well…"

"I'm your grandpa," he told her.

Eve was puzzled. She knew she had a grandfather, her mother's father, and she knew her parents talked about him like he was alive, and not the way they talked about her father's parents, who she knew had died before she was born. But she had never seen this grandfather; he wasn't around like her grandmother was.

And this man didn't really look like a grandpa – or not the way she imagined grandpas were supposed to look, with stoops and walking sticks. This man was broad shouldered and powerfully built, not as tall as her father, but strong looking. His face was weathered, and the hair she could see under his cap was grey, but he didn't look old, not really.

Eve looked at her father, and he nodded.

"Say 'hi'," he prompted her gently.

"Hi," Eve repeated in a small voice, smiling timidly at the man who was now her grandfather.

"Hi," he replied, beaming back at her. He reached down to touch her face, brushed his fingers tenderly against her cheek. His skin was rough, but his touch was soft, infinitely gentle.

"She's just like Delinda," he told her father as he straightened up, and her father smiled, nodded.

They stood for a moment, studying each other without speaking.

"It's good to see you, Danny boy," her grandfather said, and his voice was slightly tight, cracked.

Eve looked up at her father, and saw his eyes fill with tears.

He looked at her grandfather. He swallowed, and smiled, and shook his head, and her grandfather reached for him then, and they embraced.

Eve just watched, bug-eyed. She had never seen her father look like he might cry.

They stepped apart after a moment or two. Her father saw her watching worriedly, and he smiled to reassure her, swung her up into his arms and kissed her nose. She wrapped her arms around his neck.

"How long do you have?" her father asked her grandfather, and he answered with a slight, regretful shake of his head.

"Not long," he said.

Her father took a deep breath and nodded. And then he smiled, tilted his head back in the direction of the house.

"Delinda's inside," he said.

A smile that was both overjoyed and sad spread across her grandfather's face. He nodded, put a hand on her father's shoulder as they turned and started to walk towards the house.

Her father set Eve down, told her, "Let's go find Mommy."

Remembering times when she would walk between her parents, three in a row, and they would hold her by the hands and swing her, Eve took her father's hand, and then, after a moment's hesitation, reached for her grandfather's.

"Grandpa?" she said uncertainly, unused to the feel of the word in her mouth, and he turned, smiling at her kindly. She tucked her hand into his.

She remembers the rest of that evening clearly, still. She remembers her mother running down the hall, laughing and crying at the same time, hugging Eve's grandfather, and Eve's father, and Eve, and Eve's grandfather again.

She remembers her grandfather showing her a magic trick, folding a napkin into a paper rose, making it vanish from his hand and then plucking it from her hair.

She remembers that when it came time for him to leave he patted her gently on the head and told her, with a wink, "I was never here, okay?"

But she thinks that the moment she can remember clearest of all is the one when she walked along, hand in hand, between her father and her grandfather, when they both seemed to realize what she wanted without her having to say it, drew her hands back in unison and swung her, gently, through the air.


End file.
